"froth" poems
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
This trumpeter of nothingness, employed
To keep our reason dull and null and void.
This man of wind and froth and flux will sell
The wares of any who reward him well.
Praising whatever he is paid to praise,
He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways
To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk;
To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk
By methods which no jury can prevent
Because the law's not broken, only bent.
This mind for hire, this mental **********
Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute;
Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact
And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked;
Manipulates the truth but not too much,
And if his patter needs the Human Touch,
Skillfully artless, artlessly naive,
Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve.
He uses words that once were strong and fine,
Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine,
True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen,
And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean.
He takes ideas and trains them to engage
In the long little wars big combines wage...
He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy;
Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy;
Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern
And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern.
He studies our defences, finds the cracks
And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks.
lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender,
And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender.
We who have tried to choose accept his choice
And tired succumb to his untiring voice.
The dripping tap makes even granite soften
We trust the brand-name we have heard so often
And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy;
We fools who know our folly, you and I.
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Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone:
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
Inside my brain
There is a tornado
Spinning to infinity and beyond.
God only knows how fast.
My shoulders ache and my feet cramp.
My wrists click
And my eyes go damp.
Inside my brain instead is a monsoon:
A tumultuous storm that rages on.
Waves froth and smash,
Beating against the backs of my eyeballs.
Sometimes they find their way
Down my soft spotted cheeks.
My lashes float to the earth
One by one by one by one.
Would you collect them for me
Like discarded flower petals
Down the aisle of my soul's chapel
And press them into a scrapbook
Full of twisted memories?
Inside my brain is an H2O tornado
Like reckless rainstorm pirouettes.
My swirling view is blurred,
But every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of the glowing whites of your eyes
And I remember to fill my lungs,
Head above the water,
And breathe.
Twirl, twist.
Wind, mist.
But don't panic,
Because every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of you.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
i don't really know what it feels like to be in love but i think the clouds look nice about an hour before sunset when it seems like everything is submerged underneath a blanket of cotton
or maybe in the morning, when the sky is so blue but the clouds are so sad and so soft like the froth that sits on top of my soda in the summertime when its hot
or right before a sunset when the clouds are dripping gold and the sky seems to soak up all of their honey, honey like the bottles tucked away in the pantry, honey like the eyes of the spiral-haired boy living across the street
and i sit and watch how beautiful the sky is from the sweet-smelling sheets of my bed or the lonely window in my classroom or the passenger seat of my father's car and think of how beautiful it must be to be in love
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
I came along to your garden, to see your chillies growing
Unaware of what laid in wait, or what was really showing
There stood a glass a lidded drink, familiarity of knowing
If that's what I think it is, I don't want it overflowing
Do my eyes forsake me, is that a fluid from the body
Is that froth of a good beer, or from a head that's shoddy
Does it look like what it is, a very dodgy toddy!
Ghoulish drinks will turn you green, like Goblins are in Noddy
What the hell you thinking off, with water that's distilled
It smells like the local gents, so it should not be spilled
I don't mind a special brew, but this time I'm not thrilled
Unusual cocktails are okay, but not ones you have filled
Aren't beverages supposed to be, refreshing and thirst quenching ?
You say that it's good to drink, but really it's gut wrenching
An endless supply you may have, but it should be toilet drenching
Don't ever make a wankers drink, by using a fist clenching
You wouldn't want this drink on tap, it defies imagination
It's just the same as a lady, drinking her own ************
It maybe the water of life, but it's just urination
Aqua vitae is not my idea, of a real drink designation
Even just the thought of it, makes me feel sick and hazy
To drink a glass of this stuff, you must be ******* crazy
Well talk about recycling, or are you just bog lazy
Is Harvey Denton related, or do you live in Royston Vasey
People like to drink sometimes, is there something I have missed
You seem to have your own ideas, but with a certain twist
A brand new meaning you have brought, to getting yourself ******
Golden showers are one thing, but that's when your sexually kissed
There's one thing I'd like to know, so what do you say
Why do you think that drinking **** will keep the germs away
It cant be very good for you, it's an inside body spray
Your just drinking toilet water, hay Jay are you ****** today ?
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
depleted
of energy,
a weight of gold
upon my heart,
its heavy dull luster
pushes down hard
squeezing out
the light
suffocating
my staccato
of breath
I crouch
quietly
in the brush,
the next step in
my process
pending
a dense rock
of pendulum
swaying time
tick ticking
in my blood
cells reaching
the boiling point
just shy
of spilling over
into froth
waiting for
this conundrum
to unravel,
my inner tigress
about to unfurl
her heart
to leap
and pounce
from
within
into the
tight
white
of blinding
snow, the silent
storm of
the unknown
forever
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Consumed by the constant rolls that play
Developed so well, recorded so well
Chasing the aroma that gently caresses the keys of the grand olfactory organs
Sinking into the fibers that catch me when I’m melting
They remember the tight grip that I’ve imposed on them
The grip imposed on me
Yet I want to sift through
Entangled by the loose strands I can’t help but to make vulnerable
The sway in the tongue that rolls tones so heavy
Leaves me tender
Such fervor unfolding itself, irritating the chests it lays on
Ethanol giving shoves until the words rupture into your gaze
Listening for more in hopes the shower could saturate me again
Hopeful and tender, I immerse you in ego
Later washing away everything that froth before our eyes
Then repeating the same intoxicating copulation
Until the light breaks through and I’m presented an abbreviated endearment
Leaving me instilled until the next time it’s decided times can concur
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
The antique shop,
a cauldron where memories
from far and near boil and froth,
where chronological order
didn't matter, time stood still,
part real, as much magic,
different lives from distant lands and time
rolled in to one.
Here they met, by chance,a man
and a mysterious woman,with an eye for unusual,
among what was on display were
things a conman would seek
and also favorite stuff fit for kings,
artifacts and articles they must have used
or hankered after.
Past uses these museum pieces
as baits for us, secretly preparing us
to surrender before future,
unkind and rude in mind;
he changed roles as both con and king,
there was a constant yes,
she was the mate in each
he couldn't take eyes off her,
and she asked what he looks for,
"The famous ****** quilt,
that was to be mine twice before,
I missed making it mine,
narrowly every time"
He wondered how did he
make up that story so quick.
"I can take you to the quilt,
but it isn't here" she said
not a bit hesitant
He was flabbergasted by
the turn of events,as if
a hidden scripted move shows the way
They left by her car,
she was eloquent about
the effects of the ****** quilt.
As they stood near the ****** quilt,
in this room he thought was part
of an antique shop, the place looked deserted,
and her eyes shone when she suggestively said
"Want to test the effect? Don't be disappointed"
It wasn't. How could one imagine, that
the quilt can be so voluptuous.
That secret shook him out of his shell,
she had nothing to do with antique of any kind,
just another visitor like him, and the quilt
was an ingenious plot she hatched
in keeping with my sudden flourish,
the quilt, was a new addition in her bed
patch worked in silk, light weight,
it wasn't a blanket, but ****** in its very touch
it was them, the moment of adventure they found
had brought the rapture,who would regret?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Like a moth
blinded by such froth
wished to touch the flame.
Wrapped with swath
Burnt wings dropped the cloth
Time to take the blame...
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
the tectonic plates
in me
are shifting
as our continents
approach collide
my ocean is
getting closer
to the mountains
on your landscape
tallest grasses blowing
in wild demon dance,
shaking their
heads as heated
storm approaches
oven-baked air crackling
with its own
electric currents
Nothing can stop it
it's a magnetic force
one to be
reckoned with
surrendered to
as dust foams
like ocean froth
around our heads
clinging to us in tiny
starlit fragments
and soon will come
the slick dive into
wordless waters,
just skin on skin
slippery mouth muscles
like entwined snakes
flick-flicking, shiny
in eye-lit cherry moons
Take my hand.
Just pull me in.
Enfold me,
without talking
watch as my aura
rushes into you,
first a delicate whisk
of cool light
to slake the thirst
of coal-licked caverns
then sparks
and bubbling oxidation
turning into liquid brushfire
Hold your palm
to my chest,
as if to keep
my heart steady,
my glowing flare of halo
pressed into your
clavicle, taking in
the embryonic beats
soothing my torrid ache,
infusing minerals
in vitamin-laced libation
It is time to simply bask
in the new
crispness of radical
shake off
the silt and salt
and rise up
into the spheres
of memory
of soulspeak
of collapsed time zones
budded breath
spiraling up
in curls,
diaphanous
dark mist
ascending
into
light
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
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it's night now
and events have stopped.
Stillness evades the froth of evening
calm leather moves none under the fabric.
This home -- older than our world -- flushed
with wisdom -- flushed with glee -- flushed
with the violent storm of transience and
correction -- eyesight jiggled and adjusted
for new intentions -- meaning frisked for
rocks on a Boeing --
it's night now
and events have stopped.
you have stopped.
I have stopped.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Fire suns out of canons of old and decay in daylight. There might not be blood under your fingernails if you'd refused to laugh. Don't doubt it though, you're being watched. It thinks about your thoughts in thoughtless ways. Dance, pony, humor it. Fail to see the source. Research more. Someone else already answered your stupid questions. Go home. Go broke. Go on as long as you go away. Get a job, you idiot, and make sure it's a good one. If it isn't, fire yourself out of a canon into the Sun. Morphing is addictive. So is heroism. Go, sally gently forth. Froth. Growl low in the gut. Yeah, breathe the fear; die ******* mad about it.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
Softly and gently, I swim him along
the frail whirlpool of a lie,
He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold
forward towards but shy
I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet
and tell him how his would fit in,
how every moment of my cold nights would burn
into the arms of his unconscious sin
I canst remember thy face though,
o love, was the dust of snow much.?
Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem
skimming on the foam of an immortal stream,
with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup,
he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream.
A dream.
A DREAM.
O my.! Was this illusory?
Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit
The word exists the definition doesn't,
Dejection over fancies is dejecting
Perfection is straight where you find true love.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC
# *Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high*
I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.
*Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey*
I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.
I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table. #
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 4:14 PM UTC
The sea gave off a cry tonight,
It plays home to a child,
Her father threw her out of sight,
The sea swallowed her, so wild.
Her mother pushed and screamed all day,
Until the sun shone twice,
The blood would flow without delay,
Her grip was like a vice.
While pain would ebb and flow for her,
She knew her life was slipping,
But he refused to let her go,
The fear was ever gripping.
When finally the child was born,
And mother gave a sigh,
The father cleaned as best he could,
The mother closed her eyes.
A wail crawled from the fathers throat,
A pain beyond compare,
He'd lost his only love that night,
To love this child, he could not bare.
He struggled down the beach, that night,
With baby wrapped in cloth,
He swore up to the lord with spite,
And stepped in to the sea- like froth.
The sea crys out in pain tonight,
It's tears make waves, so wild,
A life, just barely started off,
She plays home to a child.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:15 AM UTC
Dusk!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,
These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*
Fibrous wings furred like a moth,
Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.
Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,
Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.
Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.
No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.
Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;
Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.
Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;
Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.
They live in darkness, centipedes do too,
Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.
Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,
Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.
Wind turbines endanger bats,
Like fans endanger lightning bugs.
Only one percent of bats are vampiric,
Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.
Dawn!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
Floating on a stream of delicate warm milk
I gather handfuls of froth udders tepid silk.
Chilled hands collect warmth on a cold night,
Fulfilled memories of past moments do ensue.
Each one descends into foamy warm truth
I pick out the choc chips going down smooth.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Cocoon. Gloom. Womb. Doom. Room.
Don’t!
For most, words doth froth forms.
Oh, foolproof.
Lord John, Jov, Thor, Job.
Lord John knows Thor's job
Now. Photoshop. School Of Rock.
Tomorrow. Hop On Pop.
Zorro Snorro.
Who?
Wrong!
Whom?
Mr. Roboto; old clown of Oslo won’t.
Yolo. Boom!
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
Here you sit alone,
You used to froth and foam,
Abuse of women, eh,
Talking to yourself again,
You abused alcohol and drugs,
Now you're a winner with no hugs,
Yes, I guess that makes you a winner
of no privileges, now I'm a grinner,
Who does misogyny make a winner?
Nothing will save your morning teabag,
Fasting is good for you, dear, signed, this old bag,
Now you're thirsty again,
You're the winner of a futile old age,
So, alcohol made you the winner,
Good day for a smile, I'm a grinner,
I'll never be your tea lady again, grinner,
So I guess that makes who a winner!
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
Feet stewed in their own sweat
lubricated grit under nails
paid to meditate and eat TV
Oh what froth there is
in a pyramid!
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
A poem by my friend Stan Blackberg (the total ******
There are flowers standing proudly, one for each whose loved ones mourn,
Speaking out so clear and loudly, for that fateful treacherous morn,
When the aircrafts bashed them up and all their flesh got burnt & torn!
Do we honour them with killing, taking up arms to spill more blood,
Or take lesson if we’re willing, a bitter pill for common good,
Or sit unbeguiled with our faces stuffed with fattening food?
There’s no god would take such action, justify such murderous deed,
Those insane within such factions, find posthumously they heed,
It's upon such wickedosity that our nostrils froth and bleed.
Hear the painful hard earned lesson, lest their names we desecrate,
Take not slaughter as your banner making killing escalate,
And by no means forget to have a mutual **********
Place our sentries all united, shed thee not another drop,
Silence now all angry gunfire, when’s the killing ever stop.
And the blood falls from above with a loudish plip and plop.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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